<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>big quar' news by newsbians</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28139136">big quar' news</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/newsbians/pseuds/newsbians'>newsbians</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, M/M, quarantine fic, yeah we're just checking in with the gang basically</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:27:56</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,876</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28139136</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/newsbians/pseuds/newsbians</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Six people, three secrets, one impending call.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>David Jacobs/Jack Kelly, Sarah Jacobs/Katherine Plumber Pulitzer, Spot Conlon/Racetrack Higgins</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>big quar' news</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>my working title for this fic was "big quar' news" and i refuse to change it at this point</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Katherine Plumber: So… are we doing this? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>jack attack kell-sters: wow sounds like kathy DOESNT wanna do this</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sarah: she’s just grumpy because i pulled her off the computer</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Katherine Plumber: Am not!</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>race and spot’s duo line B): are too</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>jack attack kell-sters: am too</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>David Jacobs: Are too. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sarah: are too! </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Katherine Plumber: Start the call, Kelly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>jack attack kell-sters: ooh baby when you talk like that, you make a woman go mad</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Katherine Plumber would like to Facetime…</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Katherine and Sarah - </span>
  <em>
    <span>New York City, 1:04 A.M. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Katherine hadn’t left the computer in sixteen hours, forty-two minutes, and six seconds… seven seconds… eight seconds… Sarah’s eyebrows furrowed together trying to track the miniscule hand on her watch in the weak glow of Katherine’s screen, where she was still furiously pounding away like the keyboard had personally vindicated her. “Kath, darling,” Sarah began, an edge creeping into her voice. “We promised my brother, and you haven’t spoken to them in weeks. I know it’s killing you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was- Katherine had lost her glittering edge to the mountains of yellow legal pads and manilla folders on her desk, again. Sarah was a dutiful prairie wife through and through when times like this arose, bringing endless cups of coffee and knitting while proofreading Katherine’s official statements, but it was especially difficult this time around. It was a miracle that Katherine was able to keep her job in the midst of the city shutting down like a child’s broken plaything, but people still wanted divorces during a global pandemic.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>More so than ever, really. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>So Katherine was a infamous divorce lawyer in the middle of good-for-nothing New York, where people had custody battles over things like gym memberships and signed posters of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Citizen Kane</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and Sarah hadn’t been able to come into work for a month and a half. She was a sous chef- and a damn good one at that- in one of the most infamous French-nouveau-modern-whatever restaurants in the city, and now they were in the middle of a </span>
  <em>
    <span>global pandemic.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Sarah wanted to scream off the edge of their itsy-bitsy, three-by-nothing square foot balcony. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Katherine rubbed her eyes as she adjusted to the lamp light Sarah had just flicked on. “It’s one in the morning,” She noted, disdain filling her voice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And you were awake.” Sarah stood over Katherine, chin only inches above her height in the desk chair (Sarah stood at a painful 5’3 compared to Katherine’s behemoth 6’0, and neither let the other forget it). She gently unwound Katherine’s blazing red hair from the days-old bun it was living in, slowly combing her fingers through the snarls while giving the words on the screen a once-over. “You misspelled ‘conformity,’” She pointed out. While Katherine went to take out the extra ‘r’ she had added, Sarah picked up her phone and smiled at the text chain. Katherine didn’t let just anyone call her Kathy. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I am not grumpy!” Katherine spun around in her chair to face Sarah, while the other girl smothered her giggles. “Ugh, whatever.” She hit the facetime button at the top of her screen, and the blooping noises filled the otherwise still night. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Darling, your ring.” Sarah reminded her fianceé. Katherine hummed in thanks, slipping her pristine-cut engagement ring on (she didn’t like to wear it while typing, it was still so new) only seconds before her brother’s face filled the screen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jack and Davey - </span>
  <em>
    <span>Santa Fe, 10:58 P.M.</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t wanna tell them anymore.” Davey crossed his arms- like he did when he was a child, very </span>
  <em>
    <span>so there!</span>
  </em>
  <span> of him- and sat back on their couch. Jack hummed in a non-committal response, not really paying attention to whether Davey was now going to tell them, or not going to tell them. He had spent the past hour flip-flopping on his decision and Jack had given up on the attempt to sway him in any specific direction in favor of half-falling asleep. He had old bones.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Davey got up and started pacing around their living room, and their husky golden retriever began following his footsteps with a determined fervor. Smalls (named after Jack’s foster sister, who had only been six at the time they adopted the dog and marveled at how tiny a brand-new puppy could be. After spending the entire afternoon marching around Medda’s backyard together in search of anthills, Smalls had proudly declared that the dog now answered to her and her only. What that </span>
  <em>
    <span>actually</span>
  </em>
  <span> meant was that the dog now only answered to Smalls- and thus, a legend was named) liked Davey more, and Jack was convinced it was because he tried to dye him lime green </span>
  <em>
    <span>once. </span>
  </em>
  <span>It was puppy-safe, but Davey had rescued Smalls in the middle of Jack’s antics, and Jack swore Smalls held a grudge after that. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well?” Davey demanded, snapping Jack out of his daze. Smalls stood at guard next to the taller man, head cocked as if to say- </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Well?”</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well… wha’?” Jack asked sheepishly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shakespeare himself could not have written the dramatic sigh Davey then let out as he fell back onto the couch, this time halfway on top of Jack, his head lolling onto his shoulder. “Do we tell them?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jack kissed the crown of Davey’s melodramatic head. “You know how’s I feel. You’ve known how’s I feel- I wanted ta tell everyone three weeks ‘go. I wanted ta paint it onto that billboard on Summer Street, but ‘parently ‘vandalism is wrong, and if you got arrested, Kathy can’t legally represent someon-’” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who isn’t in New York, because she doesn’t have a license to practice in New Mexico. Yes, I remember my argument, thank you very much.” Davey finished, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I just don’t know if over the phone is right. Maybe we should wait until we’re back in person.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Who knows when that’ll be?” Jack’s voice was weary with exasperation. “I mean, you’s literally know better than any of us.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m an oncologist, not a scientist. I haven’t given viral diseases a second thought after that class about the black plague during undergrad.” After considering his words for a moment, Davey relented. “Okay, that’s not true. But, like- </span>
  <em>
    <span>uhuhUh!”</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jack chuckled at the man’s nonsensical whine. “Very ‘rticulate, Doctor Jacobs.” His phone lit up with a text from Katherine, and Davey aggressively gripped the knee of Jack’s pajama pants. While his knuckles turned white, Jack pecked out a reply. “Breathe, Dave. It’ll be fine. Either we do it, or we don’t.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Davey twisted to face him. “I hate you, you know that?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jack kissed him, once, fiercely, and suddenly he was reminded of why he would pick Davey out of a crowd of millions, every single time. “Well, you’s agreed to marry me. So.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Davey groaned into his chest before grabbing the ringing phone out of Jack’s hand. “Don’t remind me!” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Race and Spot - </span>
  <em>
    <span>Manoa</span>
  </em>
  <span>, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Honolulu, 7:42 P.M. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The front door needed oiling. Oiling? Was oiling the right mechanical thing? Maybe it was WD-40, or he could just slather a half-pound of butter on the hinges and hope for the best. Either way, the front door squeaked open when Race got home from his shift at the Aloha Diner. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He kicked off his boots- old, worn leather things, practically the only thing passed on from his deadbeat father- on the mat by the door, since Spot was meticulous about keeping things neat. The car keys jiggled merrily when he slung them into the ornate bowl that held broken fragments of their life, gum wrappers and keychains, abandoned pens and bits of string, and a spare apartment key. Race’s jacket went on the hook by the mirror, where he grimaced at the burn a splash of oil had left on his right bicep. A new kid had started on the line today and dropped a basket of fries a little too eagerly into the sizzling oil, leaving Race with a new scar- but thirty extra minutes on his break. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spot was hunched over their dining room table-slash-automan-slash-desk with a textbook open at his feet while he pounded away at their halfway-broken laptop. Race dropped a kiss into his abundance of sleek curls while meandering over to their fridge, which still contained exactly what it had this morning when he left it: four eggs, half a bottle of sriracha, a moldy lemon, and a stale piece of birthday cake leftover from a friend’s party. “Eggs?” He asked Spot. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Nah, I uh,” Spot paused to skim a line from his book. “I ate at Miranda’s. She had spam.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Mmm. Jealous.” Race’s voice feigned mockery. He closed the fridge. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He came up behind Spot and sat, legs splayed, to wrap himself around the smaller boy. Spot hardly looked up from his work as Race adjusted himself until they were sitting perfectly molded together. Race placed a gentle kiss to the back of his neck, counting the seventeen freckles he already knew would be there. “Hey,” he whispered. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spot stilled, finally looking up from the chapter about <em>Equilibrium in Markets for Goods and Services,</em> and turned to smile at the long-legged boy attached to his back. “Hey yourself,” his Irish accent thick with exhaustion. “I’ve been looking at this damned book all day, and it turns out that just because I‘ve got m’ degree in business administration doesn’t mean a thing to this prof.” Race hummed against the nape of his neck in apology. “How’d the taping go?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No dice,” Race mumbled against exposed skin. “They cancelled the online audition- the show isn’t even happening anymore. This guy said tours won’t be happening until a vaccine is invented, and tested, and…” The rest of his groan was lost to the depths of Spot’s shirt. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe Jacobs can pull one outta his ass,” Spot chuckled. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, hey, don’t forget we have that call with them in,” Race craned his neck to read the time on their microwave display. “two minutes.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spot nodded, closing his laptop. “And we’re pretending…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Like we don’t know about the engagement, yes. It’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>surprise,”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Race embellished with jazz hands, flopping onto his back. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spot climbed on top of him, pinching three strands of Race’s shaggy hair and beginning to twist them together. “The real surprise is Jacobs thinking Jack wouldn’t have already told us. We were </span>
  <em>
    <span>on the fucking phone</span>
  </em>
  <span> when it happened.” Their phone began buzzing, and Spot shot a quick text to the group chat. “Speaking of engagements, when are we gonna spill our beans?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Race twisted the band of twine on his ring finger, a habit he had picked up within the last month. “Davey’ll kill us if we upstage their news. Like, kill. Like, fly to Hawaii and murder us and make it look like we had covid or something.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’s are right. Maybe we should wait until your birthday?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The phone started bleeping. “Or we can tell Medda, and she can tell Jack for us…” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Spot slid his finger to answer the call, and in the moments of space and time coming together to connect six friends from across the country, he noted, “Or I can propose </span>
  <em>
    <span>again</span>
  </em>
  <span> at Jack and Davey’s wedding,” and Race socked him on the arm. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Connecting Facetime call...</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i know this seems unfinished. but it was really more about where they have ended up rather than the facetime call itself? if that makes sense? idk i tried writing the ft bit and it was simply not good. i hope you enjoy nonetheless- leave a comment and i will buy you a lime green golden retriever! <br/>follow me on tumblr for a real-life newsies dictator @/deafwestnewsies</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>